How Does One Conquer the Sun?
by poshkat
Summary: Gunther struggles with archery and his thoughts. Kyra4's "Jane Ruminates" from Gunther's POV.


_A/N: So it continues._ _Based on Kyra4's_ Jane Ruminates, _which of course, continues the lovely, cotton-candy storyline set up by Solitaire44, lareepqg, and Jatd4ever. And biscuitweevil, whose fluff is marshmallow and clouds. This is too much fun!_

* * *

Gunther cannot believe himself.

He missed the target _again_!

Not the bullseye. Not the inner rings. The _entire_ target. If the shame doesn't kill him, his wayward arrows certainly will: it's _archery_ , for God's sake, the one arena where he _genuinely excels._ Unlike his sparring footwork or his wooing endeavours, he need not brag about his skills with a bow and arrow. He is _exceptional_.

So what on earth is wrong with him?!

In truth, he's circumventing the real issue (of course he knows what's wrong with him). But coward is he—Jane would be quick to agree—and it's far simpler to will ignorance than to confront the traitorous, unwarranted _, revelatory_ thoughts piercing his concentration.

(If not his arrows, at least his mind strikes true.)

He knows _exactly_ what—or _who_ —is distracting him, just as he knows that _said person_ is skulking in the nook between Smithy's stables and the armory, beholding his mortification with what he's certain is a gloating, _dung-eating_ grin.

(He hasn't been burdened with a treasonous heritage and a volatile father to not notice when someone is marking him.)

Well.

Jane Turnkey does not _skulk_.

She's also too noble to gloat, at least behind his back.

To sneak and skulk and steal about, to be secretive and selfish and sly, that's _his_ lily-livered territory.

On the other hand, Jane Turnkey… burns. At different intensities.

Gunther has noted— _of course_ he's noted, he _is_ , after all, a knight-in-training, and he's learned that knowing your enemy is critical for strategic victory—the variations of her light.

(To know yourself is the second part of the lesson, but he'd rather focus on the opposition at this moment.)

Surrounded by her friends, Jane shines in happiness; with the princess, she flashes with mirth. And when she is wronged, or senses injustice, or feels particularly strong on a subject or matter—Jane _always_ feels strongly, but her sentiments are exceptionally fierce regarding honor, feminine sensibilities, and dresses—she blazes _,_ voice snapping, face russeting, and fiery curls crackling from her rage. Even in her furtive attempt to observe him, she burns with such vibrancy and livelihood _,_ that he fears for the realization of future reconnaissance assignments.

(At times, he feels that he would make the better knight, even with his ignoble bloodline, simply because of how much deception is involved in warfare.)

And of course, on the eve of the princess's birthday, Jane _flamed._

Gunther isn't a pagan.

(His father's certainly paid enough for him to believe in the Lord.)

But on that eve, if he hailed from the far-further-furthermost isles, and saw Jane flaming across the Grand Hall in that lustrous green gown, silken sleeves streaming and embroidered tail trailing, he would be sure she was a Celtic goddess. And though her countenance sparked with scathing heat and her dagger glinted cruelly, and she descended upon him like Brigantia seeking his neck, Gunther was _enchanted._

Jane _would_ be Brigantia. High one, noble one. Warrior maiden. Goddess of perfection, intelligence, light, and fire. Briton to the core, unlike his sallow-skinned self.

(She's also the patroness of poets and smiths, but Gunther would rather not dwell upon that.)

Christian or not, he couldn't possibly overcome a Celtic _goddess_. He, a smarmy, mealy-mouthed, February-faced mortal, has no right countering a goddess. _Especially_ one to whom he swore fealty.

Yes, _fealty,_ Gunther realizes with rapidly progressing horror, and he's hesitant to fail in front of her again. He's yet to be sworn in as a knight of the kingdom, but already he has kissed her sword—her dagger!—the night of the ball. He's been sacrificed in the wild flame of Jane Turkey—he lets out a strangled scream, only to remember that Jane was still watching him— _and he wants to rip his Christian, Saxon hair out._

(At least, he thinks he's part Saxon. He's never met his mother, and his father won't tell.)

He stares at the sun, spent from his pitiful demonstration and weary from his scattered mind.

Light, flame, fire, beauty. Jane is light. Jane is flame. Jane is fire.

 _Jane is beauty._

Jane is the sun.

And how does one conquer the sun?!

* * *

 _A/N: Shoutout to Shakespeare and Sun Tzu. I'm not sure exactly when indulgences were introduced by the Catholic church (probably in the 12th century?) but let's pretend they existed during Jane's time. I used Brigantia because Jane is Briton, but I believe Brigid is the Irish form of the goddess._


End file.
